


Familiar

by miss_grey



Series: Emissary [2]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU after 3b, Attempted Threesomes, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Basically Stiles is a hot piece of ass and EVERYONE knows it, Blood Kink, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Fucked Up Shit, Haunting, Horror, Inappropriate Come-ons, Jealous Tate, M/M, Masochism, Mommy Issues, Murder, Nogitsune Trauma, Pack Dynamics, Psychological Horror, Sadism, post 3b, technically underage because they are both 17
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-22 22:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7455496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has been through a lot in the last year with the Nogitsune and his stint at Murder House, but he’s finally got his life straightened out and he’s headed back to Beacon Hills to be the emissary that Scott’s pack so desperately needs.<br/>It’s simple, uncomplicated.  Really.</p><p>And then there’s Tate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is an AU after 3B. That basically means I do what I want :) Also, I hope you guys are excited for this, because I'm super excited for this! Stiles and Tate have decided that they are soooo not done yet! :D

  


  


The chill wind of mid-October plucked early red and orange leaves from their branches and spun them through the air, over and around and through the stately trees that crowded the forest and stood guard on the ridge that overlooked the town.  Lights shimmered in the distance, soft white kisses against the hush of night.  It was quiet.

Hidden amongst the shadows, he crunched leaves under the soles of his Converse, and tucked his hands into the warmth of his pockets.  The wind brushed his cheeks, tinging them a light pink, the perfect accent to his natural pallor.  “So, this is home, huh?”  He asked, trying to wrap his head around the word in a way that wasn’t sardonic.

Stiles came up softly from behind Tate, his own sharp eyes assessing the quiet town below.  “Yep.  Welcome to Beacon Hills,” he said, and then he smiled.


	2. Death Cometh

 

 

 

It woke her in the early hours of the morning.  Screaming.  The kind that’s wrenched from a throat, pulled up out of the very depths of suffering.  It echoes; it beats against the walls and out of the walls, and in the walls, and it’s insanity.  There’s no cure for it.  It just kept echoing.

It followed at her heels, desperate and deafening.  The screams meant _I’m trapped, I’m trapped, oh God please help me,_ and also _I’m going to die, I’m going to die.  Everyone is going to die._ Lydia determinedly kept her head down and kept walking.  She was late for AP Physics, and she had things to do.

Only, she couldn’t concentrate.  She tried to read the words in her textbook, and they blurred with the force of the screaming, like someone was clawing at the inside of her brain, trying, _so desperate,_ to get out.  She glanced down at her notepad, to see if she’d been able to write any intelligible notes down, but all she’d scribbled, over and over, in her perfect, loopy scrawl was _Death cometh.  Death cometh.  Death cometh._

“Oh God,” She said, finally giving in to the pull and shoving away from the desk, “I have to tell Scott.”  Her classmates stared at her, bewildered, but the teacher didn’t even notice when she left the classroom in a rush.  Once in the hallway, she pulled out her phone and sent him a text, saying “ _We need to talk.  Now.”_

He found her in the alcove under the stairs, where she hugged herself against the pain and fear of the screams that were digging themselves into her bones and settling there.  They were all around her, in her, and she couldn’t escape them. 

“What’s wrong?”  Scott said, reaching for her.

Lydia jerked away.  “I don’t know, but something bad is coming, Scott.  I tried to ignore it, but I can’t.”

“What is it?”

“All I hear is screaming.  Just… the worst kind of screaming. It won’t stop.”  She dug in her pocket for the notebook paper.  “And this.”

Scott stared down at the message.  “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

It got louder and louder the closer they came to the _Beacon Hills Animal Clinic._ The screams leapt up at her from the pavement each time her heels clicked against it, her determined strides hampered by the grasping echoes of auditory insanity, threating to pull her down, down, down.  It was too much, there was no escape, _we’re never gonna get out._

Scott pushed the door open and ushered her through, calling for Deaton as they picked up their pace.

The door to the office opened.  Deaton and Stiles walked out.

She met his bright honey eyes, saw the quirk of his grateful, happy smile, and she heard a voice murmur _Death cometh._

She tipped her head back and screamed.


	3. The Weight of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really freaking love Deaton, okay?

 

 

Deaton was expecting him, but it still came as a shock when he walked through the door with a soft smile but tired eyes.  Deaton could sense how heavy he was.  The poor boy was carrying so much already, and at such a young age.  “Oh, Stiles,” Deaton said, coming from around his desk.  “What have you done to yourself?”  He scanned the boy from head to toe and back again.  He was whole.  At least…physically.  But he certainly had changed. 

Then, with perhaps a little less tact than he was used to showing, he flicked his eyes to the presence just beyond Stiles’ shoulder, and then back again.  “And who is this?”

Stiles glanced over his shoulder at the blonde boy who stood behind him wearing red Converse, slightly faded and torn jeans, a dark t-shirt, and striped cardigan.  “This is Tate.” 

Deaton frowned.  He cast his eyes back to the spirit.  “Why are you here?”

Tate shrugged.  “It’s complicated.”

Deaton forced a diplomatic smile.  “Enlighten me.”

Again, the young man shrugged, and his dark eyes roved around the office before settling back on Deaton.  Soft, deceptive.  “I decided I wanted to be helpful.”

“Helpful.  That’s good.”  Deaton folded his arms.  “Doing what?”

Now Tate finally smiled, and it was soft, but soft in the same way that a knife can be, as it slides between your ribs.  “Whatever Stiles needs me to do.”

Deaton narrowed his eyes and took a step back.  “You’re a familiar.”

Tate cocked his head and turned to look at Stiles, who gazed back at him.  “Is that what you called it?”

Stiles shrugged.  “More or less.”

Deaton felt a chill go up his spine.  “Stiles.  There’s something you and I must discuss.  Privately, I think is best.”

Stiles chuckled.  “He’d just listen in anyway.  Besides, Tate and I have an understanding.”

Deaton gazed at the stranger again before he took a deep breath and decided to be blunt.  He met Stiles’ eyes.  “I can sense a great darkness around this boy, Stiles.  Are you sure this is the kind of… spirit… you want to bring home with you?”  Deaton shook his head regretfully.  “I wish you’d mentioned this decision before.  I would have advised against it.”

“I know,” Stiles said.  “And I appreciate that.  You’re a good teacher and you’re a good friend.  But I know who Tate is.”

“And you still think this decision is wise?”

“It’s the decision we’ve made.”  Stiles exhaled and his shoulders slumped.  He ran a hand through his hair, and Deaton saw the weariness in the movement.  “I’m not the same person I was.”

“No one expected that,” Deaton assured him.  “We all know that you suffered extreme trauma.”

“It was more than that.”  Stiles insisted.  “It made me see things about _myself._ Things that I didn’t pay too much attention to before, but maybe I should have.”  Stiles’ eyes darkened fractionally.  “There’s a reason the Nogitsune chose me, and it wasn’t just about convenience.”

Deaton didn’t argue, because deep down, he knew the boy was right.

“But I’m even more determined now, and I’m here to learn.  I want to be Scott’s emissary, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my loved ones safe.”

“I know you will,” Deaton assured him, remembering all of the times that Stiles had already been willing to sacrifice for the same cause.  He would have said more.  God, there was so much more that he needed to say, things that Stiles _needed to hear,_ but then they heard a bang from the front of the building and Scott’s voice calling for him.

Before Stiles could walk out the door, Deaton grabbed his arm, asking the most pressing question, the one thing he had to know _right now_.  “How did you bond him?”  He whispered urgently.

Stiles eyes were dark when he said “With blood.”

Deaton’s hand slid from Stiles’ arm and he closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the world settle, once again, on his own shoulders.


	4. Reaching

 

 

Two things happened simultaneously.  Stiles reached for Lydia.  And Scott reached for him.  They collided into a mess of grasping arms and teary eyes and shaking bodies.  Lydia’s scream choked off into a garbled babble as Stiles wrapped her up in his arms and held her tight.  She fought against his embrace, shaking from the knowledge that something wasn’t right.  Scott wrapped himself around the both of them, burying his face in Stiles’ neck and just inhaling for a moment, assuring himself that his best friend was there; he was real, and he was alive, and he was himself.

And then Tate stepped into the room behind Deaton and Lydia jerked back, wrenching herself out of the boys’ arms.  She raised a shaking finger toward the rumpled looking blonde boy with the dark eyes.  “He’s dead!”  She mumbled, shaking with the wave of cold that swept through her.  “He’s dead.  Oh God, Stiles… he’s here.  He’s right behind you.”

Stiles and Scott both turned at the same time.  Tate raised an eyebrow and shoved his hands in his pockets, waiting for a que on how he should react.

“Who is he?”  Scott growled, his eyes flashing red with the Alpha’s need to defend and protect his pack. 

Stiles sighed and ran a hand through his hair.  “We have a lot we need to talk about.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lydia hugged herself and stood in the corner of the office, as far away from Tate as she could get.  He, however, stood unobtrusively scanning the books on Deaton’s shelf while the others talked.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”  Scott asked, frowning and glancing back and forth between Stiles and Tate.  Stiles had just given them the briefest overview of what life in the Murder House had been like.  “You were in Hell, Stiles, and you never said anything!  I would have helped you.  _We_ would have helped you!”

Stiles sighed, feeling ancient as he gazed at his best friend, filled with love for Scott and the knowledge that he meant everything he said.  “I know, Scotty.  I do.”

“Then why?”

Stiles chuckled, but the sound was sharp, broken.  “So many reasons, Scott.  Where do I start?”

“Just… just tell me, man.  I want to understand.”

It hurt Stiles to think about it too much, but he guessed that if there was anyone he could be honest with, it was Scott.  So he finally admitted, “At first… I didn’t even know if it was real.  I thought… I thought I was still dreaming, or that maybe it was just another trick.”  Across the room, Lydia began to cry, softly.  “Then I sort of… felt like I deserved it, I guess.  I mean, after everything I’d done…”

“It _wasn’t you,”_ Scott growled, eyes flashing protectively again.

“After everything I’d done, I figured I deserved to be in a place like that, with people like that.” 

Tate turned to glance at him for a moment, before turning back to the books. 

“But after a while, I realized there was a reason I was there, and it wasn’t punishment.”

Scott flicked his eyes toward Tate, then focused on Stiles once again.  “So why?”

“There were some things I had to do first.”

“Like…?”

“Like learn to be honest with myself for a change.  And… start my training.  And help the spirits that were trapped there.”

Scott frowned.  “What did you do?  What training?”

“I exorcised the spirits in the house.”

“Except for him.”  Scott nodded toward Tate.

“Yeah, except for him.  Tate’s agreed to help me.”  Stiles quirked a soft smile.  “I’m going to be an emissary, Scott.  _Your_ emissary.  I’m going through druid training.  Deaton is helping me.”  His honey eyes narrowed, just a fraction.  “No one is ever going to hurt any of us again.  I’m going to make sure of that.”

“That’s not something you can promise, Stiles.”  Scott said sadly.  “And it’s not your responsibility.”

“Death is all around you,” Lydia murmured, still holding herself tightly.  “When I look at you now, that’s all I see.  And he…”  She stared at Tate.  “He’s not a good person, Stiles.  When I look at him, all I hear is screaming.  So many people screaming.  I’m afraid….”

“You don’t have to be,” Stiles said, smiling softly.  “Not anymore.”


	5. Sixteen Hours

 

 

 

“You never told me about them.  Not really.”

Stiles shrugged.  “I told you what you needed to know at the time.  How was I supposed to know you’d end up coming back to Beacon Hills with me?”

Tate took a pull off of his cigarette.  “Fair enough.”

“Put that out, dude.”  Stiles snapped, opening his eyes finally to gaze at Tate from his perch.  “Believe it or not, this place is about as close to sacred as they come.”

Tate quirked a brow and eyed the giant stump of tree trunk that Stiles sat upon, legs folded delicately underneath him.  “It’s a chopped-down tree.”

Stiles grinned.  “Nemeton.”  He waved around them vaguely.  “It’s a center of mystical power.  A _beacon._ A _door.”_

“So why are we here, again?”

“It’s gonna give us some more juice.”  Stiles shrugged again, shaking out his arms as he did so.  It bothered him to sit still for so long.  “Plus Deaton said this is probably where I should work for a while, since this is where it all started.”

“Where what started?”

Stiles grinned darkly.  “Everything.”  He was quiet for a while after that, allowing the power of the Nemeton, like an electric current, to flow through him, energizing him, and giving Tate a more solid appearance.  Then, he asked “What did you see when you died?”

Tate shrugged.  “Nothing.  And then I woke up in the house, later.”  His fingers itched for the cigarette back, but he obediently left it behind his ear, for later.  “Why?  What did you see?”

“This.”  Stiles pressed his hand to the Nemeton.  He shook his head softly, still not quite understanding.  “It wasn’t just me, you know.”  Stiles said, raising his eyes to meet Tate’s dark ones.  “Me and Scott and Allison did it.  We died to save our parents.  We let our friends hold us under the water until we were dead.”  Stiles closed his eyes, remembering.  “It was Lydia who held me under.  And Lydia who helped to pull me back.”

“The red-head.”  Tate clarified.

“Yeah.”  Stiles smiled softly at the thought of her, before frowning over the rest.  “Deaton said we were only supposed to be out for a few seconds.  Just long enough to find the information we needed to help our parents.  But we were out for 16 hours.”

Tate frowned.  “Sixteen hours.  How is that even possible?”

Stiles shrugged.  “Magic, I guess.  But the three of us spent 16 hours under water.  We were dead.  We were stuck… in the in-between, I guess.  Or maybe the spirit world.  I’m still not sure exactly where we were.  But the Nemeton was there.  And a door.  Or rather… I _became_ a door.”

“That’s how the demon got through.”

“Yeah.  And why I can see spirits, I think.”

“I thought it was just because of the house.”  Tate said, sounding confused now.

“No, it’s something about me.  I think… I think I spent too long there.  I think….”  Stiles frowned and cut himself off.

“You think what?”

“I think part of me is _still_ there.”

Tate didn’t know what to say to that, so he changed the topic.  “All of your friends can see me.  I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Not everyone will be able to see you,” Stiles said.  “My dad can’t, remember?”

“So why can the others?”

“Only the supernatural ones will see you.”

“Deaton?”

“He’s a Druid.  I told you that.  He has magic.”

“And your friends?”

“Scott is a werewolf.  I told you that before.”

“I didn’t believe you.”

“I know.  But it’s true.  He’s a werewolf.  An Alpha.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means this is his pack.  He’s sort of… the boss.”

Tate bristled.  “I signed up to help you, not… Scott.”

Stiles laughed.  “Scott has been my best friend since we were little kids.  And he’s the Alpha.  I might not be a wolf, but I’m part of the pack.  What I’m doing here is _for_ Scott.  So helping me means helping him.”

“And Lydia?”

“She’s a banshee.  She can sense death.”

“Well that’s… inconvenient.”  Tate murmured.

Stiles smirked.  “Depends on your perspective, I guess.”  Power buzzed through him, and the Nemeton seemed to breathe underneath him, happy for his presence.  “You’ll meet the rest of the pack soon.”

“You keep saying that.  Pack.  I don’t know what it means.”

“It means family.  My family.  _Your_ family now.”  Stiles’ eyes darkened.  “You will never hurt any of them.  Not ever.  It’s our job to protect them.”

Tate frowned.  “You know what I am, Stiles.  You want me to just pretend none of that is true?”

“No,” Stiles said, meeting the other boy’s eyes.  “Of course not.  That would completely defeat the point of bringing you here.”  He smiled, and Tate felt himself shiver.  “You’re a murderer, Tate.  You’re a psychopathic murderer, and you have done some terrifying, supremely fucked up shit.”  Stiles chuckled.  “We both have.  The point is, I want you to be that, still.  That’s why I brought you here.”

“But you just said….”

“That I want you to protect the pack.  No matter what.”  Stiles chuckled.  “Based on Beacon Hills’ recent history, I’d say there’s a lot of blood in our future.  You up to it?”

Tate shivered.  “I think I can manage.”


	6. A Boy Named Tate

 

 

 

They were lucky the Sheriff was gone for a long shift, but then again… maybe it would’ve been better to have some back up for this confrontation.

Scott stood behind Lydia, his arms folded over his chest, his mouth turned down in a disapproving but concerned frown.  Stiles sat on his bed, hands folded in his lap, trying his best to be patient while Lydia ranted and raved, waving a folder of research in his face.  For the moment, blessedly, Tate wasn’t there.

“I found him, Stiles!”  Lydia hissed, shaking the folder.  “ _And I was right!”_ Her hand quivered—maybe from fear, but more likely from righteous anger and indignation.  “He’s a murderer, Stiles!  One of the worst kind!  Do you have _any idea_ what he’s done?”

“Actually, Lydia, I do.”  Stiles said, trying to keep his voice calm.  He hated when she screamed at him like this, but to be fair, he couldn’t be too upset with her.  He knew she was just doing her best to keep him and the rest of the pack safe.  “In fact, I’m sure I know a lot more than what you’ve got in that file, there.”

“Stiles,” Scott said, still looking stern, but managing to flash the puppy eyes at the same time, “We’re just concerned.  That’s all.”

“This isn’t just about you, Stiles!  You’ve put the whole pack in danger by bringing him here!  All of Beacon Hills, even!  Do you have _any idea_ of the kind of carnage he carries around with him?  The echo of death hasn’t left me since you got back!”

“I’m sorry it’s so hard for you,” Stiles said, meaning it.  “I didn’t realize it would hit you like that, but it’s a thing now.  Permanent.”

“What do you mean, permanent?”  Scott frowned.

“I mean that Tate’s bonded to me.”

“Well can it be undone?”  Lydia demanded.

“It can, but not without… a lot of difficulty, and a lot of pain.”

“For him?”

“And for me.”

“You tied him to yourself?  Are you insane?!”  Lydia shrieked.

Stiles felt a chill go through him, and his eyes shuttered so that she couldn’t see the hurt she’d inflicted with her careless words.  “Maybe.”  Stiles conceded. 

“Shit,” Lydia hissed, paling.  “I’m sorry, Stiles.  I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s fine,” he said, brushing the apology off.  “And anyway, you don’t have to worry so much.  Tate won’t hurt me, and he won’t hurt the pack.”

“You realize how many people he’s killed?”  Scott asked, motioning toward the folder Lydia still held limply in her hand.

“He’s killed more than are in that file, actually.”  Stiles said matter-of-factly.  “You know he saved me?  More than once?”

“No,” Scott said, shuffling self-consciously.  “I didn’t know that.”

“Well he did.  He saved my life, and he helped me in… other ways.”  Stiles chuckled.  “We have a, uh… complicated relationship, but you don’t have to worry about me.”

“How can you be so sure?”  Lydia asked.

“Because I’m stronger than he is.  And because he’s sort of… devoted to me, almost.  Loyal.”

Lydia shook her head, sad.  “You can’t just put a murderer on a leash and expect that he won’t hurt you, too.”

“He won’t,” Stiles promised.  “And I can, actually.”

“Is he really as bad as Lydia says?”  Scott asked, voice soft, disbelieving.

“Worse.”  Stiles admitted.  “But he’s not afraid of anything.  He’s willing to _do_ anything.  And he’s here to help me protect the pack.  He’s here to help me to become your emissary.”

“He’s evil,” Lydia whispered.  “I can feel it.”

“Evil is too simple a word.”  Stiles said.  “There’s goodness in him, too.  Can you just… trust me on this one?  Give it a chance?”

“I’m sorry.”  Lydia murmured.  “I can’t.”  And with that, she pushed past Scott and left the house.

Scott sighed heavily and dropped his intimidating pose.  “You said something… and I have to ask….  I mean, I just want to clarify.  You said you and this Tate guy have a…complicated… _relationship?_ ”  Scott swallowed and shifted from foot to foot, obviously trying to play it cool.  “Like… _relationship?_ ”

Stiles tipped his head a fraction.  “Like I said, it’s complicated.”  He sighed.  “Does that bother you, Scotty?”

“Not the…”  Scott shrugged, but it looked like a spasm.  “Not the dude thing.  Just… the psycho murderer thing.”  He sighed and bowed his head.  “ _Why,_ Stiles?”  Scott asked, coming forward to stand right in front of Stiles.  “You are so much better than that.”  Scott embraced him then, hugging him tightly just like he always did, because Stiles was a part of him, his best friend, his brother, _pack._

“Thanks, Scott.”  Stiles murmured, into the other boy’s neck.  He was warm and strong, and felt so comfortable, so safe and pure and good.  “But maybe I’m not.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Later, when Stiles had finally settled down to sleep, Tate appeared at the foot of his bed, head in his hands. 

“I take it you heard, then?”  Stiles asked, forcing himself to sit up against the headboard.  It’s not like he slept a lot, anyway.

“Yeah.”  Tate fiddled with his sleeves, pulling them down over his pale wrists and hands.  “They really care about you, don’t they?”

“Yeah, they’re my best friends.”

“You love them?”

“I do.  There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them.”

“They don’t want me here.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Will they treat you differently now?  Because of me?”

“Maybe,” Stiles acknowledged.  It was a thought that had been haunting him for more than a week.  “But it would’ve been hard no matter what.  I’m not the same as I used to be.  When I left… I’d just killed people.  I’d been possessed, for weeks.  One of our friends is dead.  Because of me.  And lots of innocent people, too.”  Stiles clenched his fists.  “I hurt Scott.”  His eyes darkened even in the dim light of the bedroom.  “The Nogitsune made me, but… it was me.  _I_ hurt Scott.  And I betrayed him.  I was too weak, too foolish, too trusting.  I didn’t know what I was doing, and _I let that thing in._ It destroyed my life and broke me down, and took me over, and hurt the people I love.  It took my choices from me.”  Stiles forced himself to take a deep breath.  “Scott and Lydia might not like my decision, but it’s mine.  I’m never going to let anyone make my choices for me, again.  Not _anyone._ ”

“I get it.”  Tate said.  “And I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You tried it before,” Stiles mused.  “You did your best to manipulate me for _weeks._ ”

“And then you manipulated me.”  Tate looked up to meet Stiles’ eyes in the dark.  “We’re both guilty.”

“We are.”

“You know I wouldn’t hurt you.”  Tate laughed.  “I _can’t._ Not really.”

“I know.”  Stiles pushed his sheets off and crawled slowly across the bed toward Tate.  “But sometimes you want to.”  Stiles swung a leg over Tate’s lap so that he could straddle him.  “Like now.  Admit it.  You want to hurt me, at least a little bit.”

“If you love someone,” Tate panted, shifting uncomfortably underneath the other boy, “you should never hurt them.”

“And do you?”  Stiles asked, leaning forward to nip at the blonde’s ear.  “Love me?”  He sucked the lobe into his mouth and dragged his teeth over it before he released.

“Yes,” Tate gasped.  “Yes, I do.”  Stiles ground down, dragging their erections together through their pants, just so that they could both _feel_ it.  “Please, Stiles.”  Tate begged.  “Please.”

“Say it again.”  Stiles ordered.  He rolled his hips then clenched his thighs around Tate’s waist, effectively pinning him. 

Tate wrapped his arms around Stiles and pulled him tightly to his chest.  “I love you.”

“Again.”  Stiles growled.  He began to rock, dragging himself against Tate’s lap.

“I love you.”

“Again.”  He shoved the other boy backwards and sat up tall, beginning to ride him.

“Oh God,” Tate groaned.  “I love you.”

“Again.”  Stiles moaned.  He sped up, breaths gasping against Tate’s throat as he fucked, faster and faster.

“I… oh God, don’t stop.”  Tate gasped.  “I—I love you,” he cried, as he came.

Stiles followed a minute after, while the blonde was still coming down from the high.  He rolled off of Tate and settled beside him.  After a moment of panting silence, Stiles murmured, “That’s good, Tate.  Now I want you to love them, too.”


	7. Echo

 

 

 

“You do remember what happened last time I stepped foot in a high school, right?”  Tate drawled, leaning against Stiles’ bedroom door the morning of Stiles’ first day back.

Stiles rolled his eyes at the other boy and slung his bag over his shoulder.  “Yeah, I know what happened.  But that won’t happen here.”

Tate snorted.  “You’ve got a lot of faith… and you seriously underestimate how much I hated high school.”

“No, I totally get it.  I’m just saying… _that won’t happen here._ ”

“Right.”  Tate said, quirking a brow.  “Best behavior.  Got it.”

 

* * *

 

 

He fucking hated the hallways already—white brick walls, lined with posters for bullshit clubs and dances and football games, and _who gives a shit about those things, anyway?  Idiots, that’s who._ He felt the familiar itching under his skin with each heavy footstep, and his head was filled with static.  _It’s not real.  It’s not real.  It’s not real._

Homeroom was history, and then he had to endure the torture of literature and some asshole kids “interpreting” the metaphor of Joseph Conrad.  _Heart of Darkness?  This is it.  It is me.  I am it._ The walls pulsed, like tired, aching hearts, and he felt it in his whole body.  God, it was smothering him. 

_Why did you bring me here?  Why are you hurting me like this?  This is different.  This is worse.  This is what killed me, in the end.  This.  The mindless droning, hour after hour, day after day.  The pretension stacked up so high that no one could see through the bullshit anymore.  Bitches and their douchebag boyfriends strutting around like it even meant a damn thing—who they were and what they were good at, and their fucking grades.  He hated them all.  He hated them.  He was gonna lose it._

At lunch time, he watched Stiles talk with his friends, and laugh, and smile, and he knew the whole fucking act was a lie.  Stiles didn’t have those sorts of smiles in him anymore, if he ever did.  He knew what was in that boy, and it wasn’t laughter, at least not the friends-in-the-cafeteria-kind.  Darkness.  Blood.  Pain.  And God, so much violence.  So much fucking violence.  That’s what he needed.  It was the only thing that worked.  He knew that already.  He’d already learned those lessons the first time around.  Blood.  It had to be blood.  The only way to get the bad spirits out.

Physics was a fucking joke.  They learned about levers that day.  Levers.  Tate laughed.  _Input force.  Output force.  Fulcrum.  Resistance.  He was good with a fucking axe._

_Blood.  Bone breaking.  Screaming.  Gunshots._ Yeah, he could feel it in his fucking bones, the recoil still jolting him, even through the drug-fueled haze. 

He wore his boots today, and he felt the earth shake underneath them.  Kids laughed all around him in the hallway.  They didn’t part when he walked by them, like they used to.  They didn’t even know he was there now.  No warning.  He walked straight through them.  Some of them shivered as he passed, others grew sick to their stomach.  Some of them narrowed their eyes and he felt it.  Felt that _yeah, kid, you’re just like me.  Just like me.  Blood and bone and it feels so fucking good to let go of all the bullshit, and it’s worth it and don’t think about it, and it’s all gonna be over soon…._

And then he stopped, the world jolting into technicolor and surround-sound all around him.  The red-head stood in front of him, her eyes narrowed and arms crossed in front of her breasts.  Her jaw was clenched and he could see that she was shaking from fear, but she stood her ground.  She looked up at him and said “No.  Not here.  Not ever again.”

He stared at her.  It would be so easy to reach out, wrap his fingers around her neck, and press.  Or snap.  Or walk around her.  “I don’t answer to you.”  He said, voice monotone.  He could feel it echo, even if the others couldn’t hear him.

“Never again.”  She repeated.  Then she reached out and jabbed him in the chest with a pointed, manicured nail, before she spun on her heel and marched down the hallway again.  Tate stared after her for a long time, even after she’d turned the corner and disappeared.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Later, as he rode shotgun in Stiles’ newly reclaimed Jeep, he found himself pulling at the strings in his sleeve, still preoccupied.  Stiles glanced over and said “See, today wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Tate rolled his head to the side to stare at the other boy.  “It was fine.”


	8. Melissa

 

 

“We’re going over to Scott’s tonight.”

“What for?”

“To bring him a pizza as a peace offering.”

Tate frowned.  “Why?  You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Stiles snorted.  “I’ve done so many wrong things in the last year that I’ve lost count.  Trust me when I say a pizza is the least I can do.”

“Should I give the two of you some privacy, then?”

“Yeah… I’d appreciate it, but don’t go far.  It’s best if Scott gets used to you.”

“Sure.  I’ll be there.  Whatever you need.”

 

* * *

 

 

Scott was shirtless, with torn jeans clinging to his hips when he opened the door to them.  He couldn’t see Tate this time, of course.  He’d done his best to be as inconspicuous as he could so that Stiles wouldn’t be mad at him, but now he reconsidered his decision.  Tate quirked an eyebrow as he followed Stiles into the house, wondering if the half-naked thing was normal for their relationship, or if it was a werewolf thing instead.  Tate felt a dark tendril of jealousy wind through his belly.  He’d never been very good at sharing, after all.

“Where’s Melissa?”  Stiles asked, kicking off his shoes and following Scott into the depths of the house, pizza perched easily in his lean, strong hands.

“Mom’s still at work, but she should be home in an hour or so.”  Scott smiled tightly over his shoulder.  “Thanks again for the pizza, man.  You didn’t have to.”

“’Course I did,” Stiles protested.  “It was my turn, after all.”

“Was it?”

“Positive.”

“Are you sure?  I could have sworn….”

“Scott.  Eat the pizza.”

“Yeah, okay.  Thanks.  It smells really good.”  They didn’t even wait for plates.  They just flipped the box open and dug in, taking huge bites of the cheesy, meaty goodness, grease smearing their lips and dripping down their chins.  It made Tate hungry.  Hungry in a way that he couldn’t shake, and a way that couldn’t be cured.  He’d be hungry like that for the rest of his miserable fucking existence.  So he watched them chew, and he watched them swallow.   “So,” Scott said, after he’d practically inhaled his first slice, “where is…Tate?”

“He’s around, but I asked him to give us some time.”

“He doesn’t mind?”

Stiles just chuckled.  “I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

_He knows I’m here, listening to him right now.  Asshole._

“So how is it going… with him… here?  Everything still okay?”

“Perfect, Scotty.  Just like I said it would be.”

“It still seems a bit strange to me, Stiles.”

Stiles snorted.  “That’s because it _is_ strange, Scott.  But then again, so is most of our lives nowadays.  Remember when you were first bitten?  This isn’t as weird as that.”

“Yes it is.  You’re a druid in training and you have the ghost of a murderer as your familiar.”

“That’s really not that strange, in comparison.  Kanima.”  Stiles gestured with his pizza.  “Kanima trumps all.”

“Fair enough.”  Scott smiled, and Tate narrowed his eyes.  Scott’s smile was pure and innocent, and his teeth were straight and white, and he looked so fucking charming.  And he was still shirtless.  Tate took a step closer so that he could see the look in Scott’s eyes.  “I’m glad you’re here, Stiles.  I missed you.”

“I missed you too, man.  So much.”  Stiles smiled sadly and lowered his eyes.  “I think that was the hardest part of being in L.A.  Not the ghosts, or the nightmares.  It was not having my best friend, my brother.  I’m not the same without you, Scott.  And it haunted me, what I did to you.  It _still_ haunts me.”

“Don’t,” Scott said, striding forward with his arms out.  He pulled Stiles into a hug and wrapped his arms tightly around the other boy.  “It wasn’t you, Stiles.  You never would’ve hurt me.  I know that.”

“Don’t, Scott,” Stiles protested, tugging feebly to get away, “I don’t deserve that.  I’m not the same person I was.  I’ve done terrible things.”

“I don’t care.”  Scott insisted, continuing to cling to Stiles.  “I’m here.  That’s it.”

Stiles chuckled, but it sounded watery.  “I love you, man,” he murmured, finally relenting and allowing Scott to hold him.

Scott smiled softly.  “Love ya too, buddy.”

Tate crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen counter, observing the scene silently.  His mind buzzed with Stiles’ words from before.  _Scott’s the Alpha._ My _Alpha.  There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Scott._

“So that’s how it is, huh?”  Tate murmured, shoving his hands in his pockets.  “Alright.  I can work with that.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

The boys sprawled on the floor playing videogames and Tate lounged on the bed watching them closely when they heard the door open downstairs followed by hurried steps right before Scott’s bedroom door was flung open and a small, dark-haired woman strode into the room looking harried and saying “Where is he?!”

Stiles leapt to his feet and met her halfway across the room.  That’s all it took.  She threw herself at him, and they wrapped their arms around each other tightly.  The woman rocked softly back and forth, and she held him like she had no intention of letting him go.

“You’re back,” she mumbled tearily, “you’re finally back.  God, we missed you so much, sweetheart.”

“I missed you a lot too,” Stiles murmured into her hair. 

They held each other for a long time before finally pulling apart.  The woman stepped back to look at Stiles and asked “How are you feeling, hun?  You look tired.”

“I am,” Stiles admitted, running a hand through his hair.  “But it’s the normal kind of tired, not like… yeah.  I’m okay.”

She smiled softly.  “I believe you.”  She said, and the words seemed to hit Stiles like a punch.  “But if you need anything, you let me know, alright?”

“Sure,” Stiles agreed.  “I appreciate it.  And everything else.  You know.  I didn’t really get to thank you, before….”

“None of that,” she said, brushing his words away.  “There’s nothing to thank me for.  It’s my job to take care of my boys.  And I’m just glad that you’re home now.  Back where you belong.”

“Yeah,” Stiles smiled.  “Me too.”

She reached out a hand and stroked it gently over Stiles’ cheek before she took a step back and dropped it to run through Scott’s hair.  “Did you boys eat?”

“Yep,” Scott said.  “Stiles brought pizza.  We saved you some downstairs.”

“Oh, thank God,” she said.  “I’m starving after that shift.”  She smiled and said “I’m gonna go eat and leave you guys to your game.  Stiles, make sure you see me before you head out.”

“’Course.”

 

* * *

 

 

Tate followed her down the hall, hovered after her on the stairs, and stood too close as she made her way to the kitchen.  She was interesting, this newcomer. 

He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this.  She braced herself against the kitchen counter and her shoulders heaved with the force of fighting back the sobs that suddenly wracked her narrow body.  They were mostly silent, controlled, but the woman looked like she was shaking apart with the effort of holding them back.  Her breath punched out of her in ragged gasps, and she hunched in on herself like she might break if she didn’t.  It was… unexpected.  Disturbing.  Alarming.  It lasted for about five minutes, before she finally straightened and brushed her hair back behind her ears and out of her face.  Tear tracks stained her cheeks, but a soft smile adorned her mouth.  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then got herself a piece of pizza.

He could have gone back up to Scott’s room.  He should have, really.  But he didn’t.  Instead, he settled on the couch next to the woman and watched a crappy dating reality show with her while she ate her dinner.  She folded herself onto the couch, feet tucked up underneath her, still decked in mint colored… scrubs?  She exuded peace and comfort, and it was like that momentary breakdown had never happened.

Tate sat with her for hours, even when she fell asleep with the tv still on.

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the Jeep, Tate materialized as soon as they’d pulled into the street.  “Who is she?”  He asked.

Stiles frowned.  “Who?”

“The woman who hugged you.”

“Melissa,” Stiles said, and the name sounded like a blessing.  “She’s Scott’s mom.”

_And yours,_ Tate thought.  “She seems to care a lot about you.  And you care a lot about her.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, “we’re as good as family, ya know.  She, uh… she really takes care of me, when she can.  There’s no one else like her.”

“She knows about… what you did?”

“Yeah, she knows.  She knows about everything.  She’s cool.  And brave, and smart.  You couldn’t keep the truth from Melissa McCall, even if you tried.”

“She means a lot to you.”

“Remember what I said about doing _anything_ for Scott?  That goes for Melissa, too.  She’s pack.”

Tate nodded understandingly.  “Noted.” 


	9. Way Down We Go

 

 

“You’re something else.”

“What do you mean, ‘something else’?”  Stiles asked, brows furrowing in slight concern.

“I mean you’re not strictly a Druid,” Deaton explained.  “Or at least, not _just_ that.”

“Okay… so what am I, then?”  Stiles crossed his arms and hugged himself, almost afraid of the answer.  _Demon.  Abomination.  Nogitsune.  VOID._

“You are one of the few people with the unique ability to see and interact with spirits on multiple planes.”

“It’s because of the Nemeton, isn’t it?  And when we all did that ritual death thing?”

“Maybe.  But I think it’s about you, too.  I hate to bring it up, but… you mentioned before that the Nogitsune targeted you for a reason, and I agree.  I think it’s because the spirit could sense your incredible strength, and the skills that you have, even if you were unaware of them.”

“I’m not that strong,” Stiles said, looking away.

Deaton’s voice was soft when he said “How many spirits did you exorcise before you were finished?”

“Nineteen.”

“You have no idea how amazing that is, do you?  How unbelievable it is that you are still alive, still here?  That they didn’t overwhelm you and drag you down with them?”

“They tried.”

“But they didn’t succeed.  Just like the demon didn’t succeed.  You’re stronger than all of them, Stiles, and you’re still learning.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about the exorcisms.”

So Stiles relayed what he had done in the depths of the Murder House, the spirits that he had exorcised with rage and with compassion, and those feelings filled him again, gripped him, threatened to drag him back.  When he was finished, he felt exhausted and Deaton stared at him in barely disguised wonder.

“You have no idea what you did, do you?”

“What do you mean?  I exorcised the spirits of the house.”

“And yourself.”

“What?”

“You exorcised yourself as well.”

“You’re gonna have to explain that one to me, because I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about now.”

Deaton chuckled.  “Will you allow me to get abstract for a moment?”

Stiles shrugged, exhausted.  “Sure.  Why not?”

“That exorcism was your rite of passage, Stiles.”

“Like… like the win or die kind?”

“Like the win or die kind.  When you left Beacon Hills, you were very fragile, Stiles.  You were almost… shattered.  Your mind couldn’t deal with what had happened to you and you needed to go away to heal.  From what you’ve told me about your time in Los Angeles, that’s not what happened.  In fact, it seems that your psychosis got worse while you were there.”

Stiles snorted.  “You’re right so far, Doc.”

“You hadn’t hit rock bottom, yet.”

“Really?  Because I’m pretty sure being possessed by a demon and trying to kill everyone I love is rock bottom.”

“But it wasn’t, because you still fought it.”

“Okay…”

“I can’t be sure, but I think in LA you hit rock bottom.”

Stiles laughed.  “Yeah, maybe.”

“And maybe your… friend… helped you to get there.  But either way, you found your limit in that house.  But once you hit rock bottom, you either stay there, or you rise.  You’re not shattered anymore, Stiles.  You’re not the same, but you’re not broken.  Something happened in that house that allowed you to embrace your own darkness and incorporate it into your life so that you are a whole person again, a stronger one.  You had to first accept that the darkness inside of you wasn’t just the demon, wasn’t just Void, that it was also you.  Only after accepting that could you do something about it.  And you did.  You took on the weight of exorcism—you walked in, not knowing whether you would walk out.  You dealt ruthlessly with the dark spirits, and compassionately with the innocent ones.  You took full control of your life in that moment, and you exorcised yourself in the same moment that you exorcised the others.  I bet it hurt, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Stiles croaked, feeling shaky at Deaton’s words.

“That’s because healing _does._ ”  Deaton folded his hands in front of himself.  “You’re the strongest potential emissary that I’ve ever met, Stiles.  Understand me when I say _that house_ was your trial, your liminal space.  And you came out of it stronger and surer than you were before.”

“And darker.”  Stiles murmured.

“Yes,” Deaton conceded, voice still calm, accepting.  “And darker.”


	10. Cycle

 

 

 

“My mother was a cunt.  She used to drink all day and whore around with whatever guy she thought would give her what she wanted.  Seriously, she was a heartless bitch.  She said she cared about me and Addie and Beau, but she didn’t.  She just liked the idea of caring about us, but she always told Addie that she was ugly and stupid, and not good enough, and that she’d never get married and have a life of her own.  She called Addie her anchor, and acted like a fucking saint for pretending to love her.  She kept Beau locked in the attic, for fuck’s sake.  She used him for the fucking welfare check, but she never went up to visit him.  That was always me and Addie.  Never her.  And she didn’t care that I was going crazy, that most of my friends were ghosts, that I was getting drunk too and hooked on coke.  She didn’t even fucking see it, not that she would’ve cared even if she had noticed.  She said I was beautiful, and that was all that mattered.  I was her angel, she said.  She didn’t care that I was falling apart, that I was losing it.  She was still trying to hide it even after I killed all those kids.  That’s how fucked up she was.  A real bitch.”  Tate took a long drag of the half-smoked cigarette and frowned softly.

Stiles cocked his brows and leaned against the wooden beam of the porch, his hands shoved in his pockets for warmth.  “Alright.”  He cleared his throat.  “Sounds like it sucked to live with her.”

“Oh yeah.  She even stuck around after I died, so I couldn’t even get away from her then.”

“…why do you bring her up now?”

Tate shrugged, allowing the tension to roll through his shoulders, down his arms, away.  “No reason.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_The world is yours with a smile, my angel.  Just a smile.  That’s my beautiful boy.  Smile for mommy.  YOU SELFISH FOOL, WHAT DID YOU DO?!  Don’t you understand the gift you’ve been given?  People would kill to be half so beautiful as you, and you throw it away!  You dress yourself in rags and frown all day.  I WON’T STAND FOR IT!  DO YOU HEAR ME, YOUNG MAN, I WON’T STAND FOR IT!  You’re a self-pitying fool.  Someday you’ll see!  Someday you’ll learn!  The world is yours, if you’d just take it!  Take it and help your family, you ungrateful boy!  Don’t you know what I’ve given up for you?!_

His hands shook.  Stiles slept soundly next to him—a change from the usual.  Tate couldn’t force himself to relax, though.  The walls were closing in.  He’d smoked his last cigarette about four hours ago and he was fucked until at least morning, when Stiles could swing by the store before school.  He’d been chain-smoking for the last three days.  Ever since… ever since….  He wished his brain would just _shut the fuck up._ He didn’t need this.  Things were different now… he couldn’t just lose it.  He had to hold on.  Stiles told him so.  He was depending on Tate being able to hold it together.  _Serve and protect.  Serve and protect.  Isn’t that fucking ironic?_ How many hours until morning?  How much longer would he have to keep cycling through the same old bullshit?  He was losing it.  Losing it.  His hands continued to shake.

_Smile for me, my darling.  There we go.  There’s a good boy.  My handsome little man.  Mommy can always count on you, can’t she?  Yes.  My beautiful boy.  My angel.  So perfect.  Not a blemish on you.  My miracle.  Proof of God’s good work.  Remember to smile—there’s a good boy.  The world is yours.  You can’t afford to squander your gift, child.  You owe it to the world to smile.  Yes, even then.  Yes, even when it hurts.  Smile, and you can have anything you want.  That’s a good boy._

Fuck, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

**_You’re back, you’re finally back.  God, we missed you so much, sweetheart.  How are you feeling, hun?  You look tired._   I believe you.  _If you need anything, you let me know, alright?  There’s nothing to thank me for.  It’s my job to take care of my boys.  And I’m just glad that you’re home now.  Back where you belong._**

He took a breath, and he was calm.


	11. Ajar

 

 

_It shone so brightly and it was impossible to resist.  The pull was as deep as the thing itself, its heart, its core.  Perfect.  Impossible.  Irresistible._

_The door yawned wider as it drew closer, further, further, further.  Beyond it, light like it had never seen, filled with sound and life and endless possibilities._

_The thing crept toward it, then through it, and the door closed after it._

 

* * *

 

 

Tate ran his hands over the soft black material that covered his arms and he fought back a shiver.  The weather didn’t really bother him, couldn’t anymore, but some habits are hard to shake off.  And the human part of him knew that when the leaves shook and fell like that in a chill fall wind, it was best to huddle in.  And anyway, it made him feel better to do it.  Stiles paced back and forth in front of him, muttering under his breath, fingers trembling from all of his pent-up energy that hadn’t yet found a suitable outlet.

“I don’t know what it is.”  Stiles growled, his hazel eyes darkening in the shade of the forest.

“Well, is there anything out of the ordinary here?”

“No.  At least… not anymore.  But something feels wrong.  I just… I _know it,_ but I can’t figure out what it is.”

Tate licked his lips.  “Maybe you should ask Deaton.”

“Can’t.  He’s out of town for a couple days.  He just left this morning, too.”

“Figures,” Tate muttered to himself.  That was just like people, wasn’t it?  Never around when you _really_ needed them.  Tate cleared his throat, and said “Well, is there anything else you and I can do?”

“Maybe,” Stiles frowned.  “But I think we should probably call in back up, just in case.”

Tate cocked a brow.  “Back up?”

Stiles smirked.  “Scott.”

Tate forced a smile.  “Of course.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re right.  I definitely sense something, but I have no idea what it is.”

“See, that’s the thing, and it’s driving me crazy!”  Stiles ran a hand through his already-mussed hair.  “I know something is wrong, I just don’t know what.”

“Well, it can’t be too bad, or we would’ve heard from Lydia by now, right?”  Scott asked, trying for a calming smile.

Stiles snorted.  “Or not.  She’s been avoiding me like the plague.  She said that every time she looks at me, she sees death.  So I mean… maybe she wouldn’t even know the difference, if that’s what she’s been feeling for a couple weeks now…. Right?”

Scott frowned.  “Yeah, I guess.  We could always call her and ask, though.”

“You should probably be the one to call her.  She’s still really mad at me.”

“Okay.”  Scott pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed.

Tate tapped a cigarette out of the pack and moved out of the range of hearing to smoke it.  He didn’t really want to hear what Lydia had to say.  She hated him and he knew it.  Frankly, the feeling was mutual, but Stiles had labeled her “Pack.”  Tate still didn’t really get what that was supposed to mean, or why it was so special, but he _did_ understand that it meant _off-limits_ and _need to protect._ So he figured it was best if he kept his distance.  Because he was trying to do what Stiles asked, but Tate wasn’t a fucking saint at the best of times, and he wasn’t exactly at his best right now.  He inhaled deeply and watched Scott talk on the phone.  He didn’t understand the hype.  Scott was good-looking and apparently brave and strong and loyal and all that other bullshit, but Tate thought half of that was probably exaggeration, and the other half was over-rated.  Still, he’d made it a habit to watch the werewolf closely whenever they were together.  He thought he was finally figuring some stuff out about Scott and Stiles, and how Tate fit into the whole mess.  Things were so much easier back when he could just kill people.

“So what did she say?”  Stiles asked the moment that Scott slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“You don’t wanna know, man.”  Scott murmured.

“Yeah, I really do.  Come on, Scott.  I can handle it, I promise.”

Scott frowned and cast Tate a not-so-subtle glance before he said “She said ‘Tell Stiles his serial-killer boyfriend reeks of death and his rage is so loud I can’t hear anything over it.”

Stiles frowned.  “I figured it’d be something like that.”

“Well, ya know….”

“Not again, Scott.  We’ve already been over this.”

“I know.  It’s just… she sort of has a point.”  Scott tried to whisper.

Tate took a drag off his cigarette and pretended like he wasn’t listening. 

“She can’t help us.”  Stiles said.  “Okay.  Let’s move on to the next option, then.”

“Which is… what?”

Stiles sighed.  “Fuck if I know.  Maybe… ask around.  Are any of the other werewolves back yet?”

Scott grimaced.  “Isaac is supposed to be back tomorrow.  I can ask when he gets in.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, “I guess that’s good.  In the meantime, I’ll keep working on it.”

Scott grasped Stiles by the shoulders and held him for a moment, his thumbs smoothing the fabric of Stiles’ shirt.  “Just remember to take care of yourself, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”  Stiles muttered.

“Promise me, Stiles.”  Scott insisted, his voice taking on a commanding tone.

“Fine.  I promise.”

“Good,” Scott said, his hands sliding away.  “Let’s head back then.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Scott’s a good friend,” Tate said later that night, straddling Stiles’ desk chair while the other boy did his homework sprawled on his bed.

“Yep.  He’s the best.”  Stiles agreed distractedly, making a mark in his math notebook. 

“No, I mean… he’s the best friend that I’ve ever seen.  He really cares about you.  A lot.”

“Yeah… we’ve been best friends since we were little kids.”

“Ah.”  Tate bit his lip.  “Just friends?”

“What?”  Stiles frowned, finally looking up from his book.  His eyes narrowed on Tate.  “Yeah.  Just friends.”

Tate looked away and fiddled with the loose string on one of his sleeves.  “You never wanted more?”

“No.”  Stiles said.  “It’s not like that between us.  Scott and I are just friends.”

“Who would do anything for each other.  Like family.  Pack.”

“Yeah.”  Stiles said, his frown obviously deepening.  “Just like that.”

“So you wouldn’t fuck him if he asked?”

“What?!”  Stiles squawked.  “I told you, it’s not like that!”

Tate smirked to himself, but in a way that Stiles wouldn’t notice.  “You didn’t answer the question.”

“Don’t need to.  It’s ridiculous.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”  Tate murmured softly.  “Bet he wouldn’t let you push him around though, would he?  He’s your _Alpha._ You do whatever he says, don’t you?”

Stiles slammed his book closed and sat up.  “Where the fuck is this even coming from?”

“Just calling it like I see it.”  Tate said, finally lifting his eyes to the other boy’s.

“Are you fucking jealous?  Is that it?”  Stiles demanded, pushing himself up.

“Jealous?  Of what?  I thought you said it wasn’t like that?”  Tate growled.  He stood too, shoving the chair away.

“It’s not.  You’re imagining things.”

“Don’t need to.  Like I said, I call it like I see it.”  Tate sneered.  “And you want that boy to fuck you.”

Stiles snarled and leapt forward, suddenly in Tate’s space, pushing him back into the wall so hard his head smacked it and bounced.  “Shut your mouth.”

“Fucking make me.”  Tate growled, his ears ringing from the impact.

Stiles shoved his body against Tate’s, so that they could feel each other’s mutual arousal.  He wrapped a hand around Tate’s throat, the other grappling and quickly pinning the boy’s hands to the wall above his head.  “I said shut up.”

“And I said make me.”

Stiles’ eyes darkened and he leaned forward swiftly, sealing his lips over Tate’s, pressing brutally, his teeth snagging on the tender flesh of Tate’s lips, bruising, cutting.  “Is this what you wanted?”  Stiles panted, pulling back, before he did it again while grinding himself against Tate’s hip.

“Yes,” Tate gasped the moment he was able to tear his mouth away again.  “Yes, that’s what I want.”  He arched against the wall, his body feeling alive and buzzing with pain and pleasure in equal measure.  He felt dizzy from the kiss and from where he’d knocked his head.  “Please,” he begged.  “Please.”

Stiles laughed, and pulled away, leaving Tate alone and cold.  “No.”  He licked his spit-slicked lips.  “And from now on, keep your mouth shut about Scott.”  Then he went back to his bed and flopped down, resuming his book, looking utterly unbothered by the whole exchange. 

Tate’s heart hammered in his chest, his pulse racing.  The sound of his own panting filled his ears as the world shrank around him and grew dark, the only point of light centering around Stiles’ impassive sprawl.  _Thump, thump.  Thump, thump.  Thump, thump._

This wasn’t going to end well.


	12. Your Blood On My Hands

 

 

God, Scott was a golden boy, wasn’t he?  Everyone loved him, everyone thought he was perfect.  _Perfect Scott._ And yeah, okay, the boy had heightened senses.  That was true.  Tate had seen enough since coming to Beacon Hills to believe that the boy really was a werewolf, if such a thing existed.  But there were things he _couldn’t_ sense, and Tate had been dead just long enough to learn how to go undetected if he felt like it.  And right now, he felt like it. 

He hadn’t told Stiles everything—it wasn’t in his nature to do so, even with their… arrangement.  For instance, Stiles probably didn’t understand the range of freedom that Tate still had.  He wasn’t as chained to the boy as Stiles obviously believed and hoped for.  He could leave his side and pursue his own… interests.   And as Stiles got stronger, Tate did too, thanks to their blood bond.  Sure, Stiles could tug the leash—they hadn’t experimented with that quite yet—but _why would he_ if he didn’t believe there was a need to?  And so Tate kept his steps light as he moved through the halls of the high school.

 

 

* * *

 

Scott McCall wasn’t a genius.  That much was obvious after watching him even for a day.  But he tried.  He took notes in class and he stumbled through his math problems.  Tate lounged in the desk next to him and watched him work.  Scott’s brows pulled tight over a particularly bothersome equation and he bit his lip.  Tate could practically see the gears struggling to turn in the boy’s head.  He had to hold back a snort.  He was hopeless.  Why did Stiles put up with him?  Their intelligence wasn’t even comparable.  And he had nothing on Tate.

Scott liked to text during class and during breaks, and at lunch.  Tate leaned over his shoulder to read the messages while Scott tapped them out.  He memorized names.  Derek.  Isaac.  Ethan.  They talked about strange things.  _Pack business._ Now, officially, Tate’s business.

Tate was surprised to see that Scott also texted Melissa throughout the day.  Just _Hi Mom, I hope work is going good,_ and _I was thinking of making grilled cheese tonight,_ and _Don’t forget, I have practice._ Tate rolled his eyes.  Fucking golden.  But that didn’t stop him from reading every single message that Melissa sent back.  He could almost hear her voice, soft, caring, honeyed tones.  _Busy as usual, how is your day?_ and _Sounds delicious, hun, thank you,_ and finally, _be safe, have fun.  I love you._   Melissa McCall was a goddamn revelation. 

 

* * *

 

Tate watched from the bleachers as Stiles and Scott practiced lacrosse.  He watched the way they moved around each other, the way they could communicate without speaking.  Fluid, synced, flawless.  They came together, breaths heaving from their bodies as they grasped hands and hugged.  Tate shifted in his seat and clenched his hands.  Stiles was lithe, quick on his feet, with sleek muscles, perfectly toned.  Watching him made Tate want.  Scott was in his space.  Always in his space.  So close.  Like it was natural for him to be there, like he was _supposed_ to be there.

Tate cocked his head and wondered how much trouble it’d be to kill Scott.

He closed his eyes, bit his lip, and allowed himself to imagine it.  Oh, yes.  Maybe he’d slip his fingers around the boy’s throat, real tight, and squeeze until Scott’s eyes rolled back and his legs gave out.  Tate huffed.  Or maybe he’d stab him.  Over and over and over again.  Or.  Even better.  He’d tie him down and really take his time with it.  Tate wanted that.  He wanted to feel Scott’s blood on his hands.  God, he yearned for it just as intensely as he yearned for Stiles.  To own him and be owned by him.  And _fucking_ Scott McCall just had to be so bloody perfect.  Fine.  Tate rolled his shoulders.  He knew how to deal with that.  He’d dealt with pretentious pricks just like him back in school.  Yeah.  He knew how to deal with them.  He knew what they wanted. 

Across the field, Scott tipped his head toward Stiles so that their foreheads brushed, and he smiled, whispering something.  Both of them laughed, clapped each other on the back.  Tate’s eyes narrowed.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Scott’s daddy was a fucking FBI agent.  So much fucking worse than the good Sheriff Stilinski.  He only found out because when Scott went to shower, Tate went through everything in his phone.  He found pictures of Scott and Melissa and _this_ douchebag.  Stiles.  So many of Stiles.  And a beautiful dark haired young woman.  Lydia. A bunch of teenagers that Tate hadn’t met yet.  Tate snorted and dropped the phone back, then passed through the door into the bathroom.

The room was steamed up and the shower curtain was closed, but opened enough that Tate could see Scott reflected in the foggy bathroom mirror.  Tate leaned against the counter and watched. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see.  Maybe the boy getting himself off—touching himself and moaning out Stiles’ name.  Fuck, that’s what Tate would’ve done.  But again, he was surprised by the _Alpha,_ for whatever that was worth.  There was nothing hot and heavy about it.  Nothing even remotely sexy.  Scott had soaped his hair into strange shapes and he sang softly to himself as he swayed under the water.  Tate wanted to puke.  The sheer _innocence_ of it made him want to kill something.  _Jesus fucking Christ_.  How much more of this was he gonna have to take?  Stiles had said hands off, but what Stiles didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.  But Stiles _would_ know, wouldn’t he?  Tate wasn’t sure how he’d find out, just knew that he would. 

So.  Best behavior.  Scott was off limits.  Off limits.  For now.  For now, Tate wouldn’t hurt him.  He’d just watch.  And wait.  But this wasn’t over.  He had plans for Scott McCall.

Sufficiently disgusted by Scott’s display, Tate wandered downstairs to where Melissa McCall was curled up on the couch again, nibbling at the grilled cheese sandwich that her darling son had made for her.  She laughed at some police sitcom on the tv and relaxed into the cushions.  Tate sat down next to her and watched her.  She was really beautiful.  He could grudgingly admit that this is where Scott got his looks from.  His mother was lovely.

“Melissa,” Tate said, trying the name.  She didn’t hear him.  Of course she didn’t.  She probably couldn’t feel him, either. 

Tate reached out a hand and ran the backs of his fingers lightly over one of her soft, rosy cheeks.  Melissa’s smile froze in place and her throat hitched.  Her lovely dark eyes widened like a deer’s and she turned, her muscles stuttering with the effort of holding her panic at bay. 

“Hello?”  She called, looking right through him.  “Is anyone there?”

Tate sighed and leaned further back into the cushions as well.  So.  She was more sensitive than most.  Susceptible to him.  That was good to know.

After a while, Melissa leaned back again and turned her eyes toward the tv once more.  But, Tate noticed, she wasn’t laughing anymore.  And he had a moment, a single moment, where he felt bad about that. 

Then he blinked and was back in Stiles’ room, watching him do homework.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_The thing moved through the darkness, stalking along the quiet, sleeping streets of Beacon Hills.  So many lights.  So many shiny little beacons to be drawn to—safe in their beds, dreaming good dreams.  So much_ life.  _It had been so long.  So long._

_It paused outside a door.  Upstairs, tucked under clean sheets and a soft blanket, a shiny little life slept, deep in good dreams.  Glowing.  Lighting up the night._

_It went up the stairs._

 

* * *

 

 

Six miles away, Lydia jerked awake in bed, her limbs shaking and breath icing the air in front of her face.  A voice, soft, amused, whispered in her ear: _Death cometh._

**Author's Note:**

> Remember, comments give me life and are always appreciated! Also feel free to stalk my tumblr at http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/
> 
>  


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